A Spontaneous poem  - Steven Quantick

What is it better for my heart to be like?

Hard as steel as a sword so to shine?

Or of something delicate

Like intertwined feathers

That they might tenderly touch

And provide a place for heads to rest?

I find myself fixating

Thinking on clay

That in the fires of aggression and hatred

It can be hard baked

And shattered into sharpened shards

That say "don't come close"

When it breaks

I am not a potter

Like my Heavenly Father

So forgive any scientific inaccuracy on my part

And permit me poetic license

Using clay to form a heart

But it is my belief it is a time sensitive thing

It needs water to soften

And hands to make it shape

Before it stops fast and hardens

Before it forgets that it's the substance of which it is made

So I think it's best

For my heart to always remember that it's clay

For it to maintain its malleability

As it retains its fallibility

As it surrenders to an artist

Who is never making people wrong

Who made these lungs and windpipe

To make words

And sing songs

And tell my wife I love her

And my friends that they are strong

But more than this

That it is a heart

That is dearly loved

Because clay feels best

Between fingers

It replies

Gratified

When it is caressed

So let his hands

Reach in

And know

As you are

With all the mess

That in his eyes

Your potential

Is limitless